


A Strange Customer

by Kuronrko98



Series: Collective AUs [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Animal Death, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Other, a hot second of misgendering, do not copy to another site, mention of it at least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-03-01
Packaged: 2019-11-06 22:13:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17948108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kuronrko98/pseuds/Kuronrko98
Summary: Connor has been wondering about the visitor to his brother's shop that never actually. Orders anything. Turns out, they're just weird.





	1. Chapter 1

I don’t remember exactly when she first started coming to the shop. I don’t even remember when I noticed that she never _orders_ anything. She just comes in every day and sits at the counter with her laptop and types.

I shoot a furtive glance at her, trying to distract myself from the otherwise empty shop. I’m surprised to catch her flick her eyes away from me, though, the pause in the clack of keys barely noticeable otherwise. I pretend to be completely engrossed in refilling the syrups, sure it was a coincidence.

Still, I have an idea.

I pull a cup from the stack and get started on a drink. I’m sure I’ll get in trouble for this later, but it’s just a cup of coffee. Jordan can eat my heart out.

As I make the finishing touches on a rabbit in the foam, I turn back towards her to find a pair of inquisitive teal eyes on me. I lean on the counter in front of her and offer her the cup.

“You’re in here everyday, I thought you might want some coffee to help you get through whatever you’re working on,” I say, suddenly aware of how creepy it is to just make a free drink for someone I’ve never talked to.

She purses her lips, brows raised as if she just told a joke I don’t understand, and takes the mug. “Thanks,” she pauses, mimicking the old trope of peering at my nametag, though I get the feeling it’s an act. “Connor.”

She doesn’t take a drink, simply setting the coffee carefully on the counter next to her computer and appraising it. She looks back up at me, actually smiling this time. “It’s cute. The rabbit, I mean.”

And she goes back to writing, not touching the steaming mug beside her. I don’t press it, though I don’t have much choice. A large group comes bustling into the shop and I take their orders.

Before I have another lull in service, I notice her pushing out the door behind them. As the door is closing, I catch her eye and offer a smile. She waves back, grinning with that same hint that she’s laughing at me.

Instants later, I pass off the last of the group’s drinks and a hot sandwich. I grab a rag and move to wipe down the counter, but I notice the still-full mug where the girl sat.

I frown, a little stung that she didn’t even try it. Still, I guess it is a drink that she never asked for. Sighing, I drop the rag and retrieve the cup. Lifting it, I find a folded sheet of paper with a short message scrawled on it.

_Sorry I couldn't drink this. You have it!_   
_It really is a cute rabbit.  
S_

Under the note sits $10 even though the drink was only worth 3. I look to the door, grinning like an idiot. What a weird girl.


	2. Chapter 2

S doesn’t come in for a few days. I catch myself, when the place is empty, glancing over to her usual place at the counter. She’s been coming here for a while, studious and quiet, since term started. I hope I didn’t scare her from the shop.

I’m more relieved than I would like to admit when she slides onto her stool at the usual time on Saturday afternoon. Rachel mentioned her absence in passing when I got here yesterday, wondering if something happened.

Now, _I_ wonder if she was right. The bags under the girl’s eyes are more pronounced, a haunted look pointed at the floor as she walks. She gives me a distracted nod, which I return, but her movements are slow when she pulls out her computer and gets to work.

An hour or so after she arrives, I’m running out of things to do behind the counter. Everything’s clean, the grounds have been replaced, nothing is out of stock, it’s all done. I close the register, having compared the totals to the record.

I sigh and lean back into a stretch. That was the last bit on my to-do list and there have been _maybe_ three customers in the past two hours.

“How about a cat?”

I look up to find her watching me. Stupidly, I say, “A cat?”

She averts her eyes, as if embarrassed. Eventually she nods and her voice is still flat when she speaks, though it's with the barest of smiles. “A cat. That’s a thing people put in foam, right?”

I stare at her. “Yeah. What do you want it on?”

“What kind of tea do you have?” she asks, closing her computer and peering over the counter.

“Oh, uh,” I gesture over my shoulder to the sparse selection of bagged teas my brother has stocked. “Just what you see. I can’t do latte art on them, though.”

“So it has to be coffee?” I can tell she tries to keep disappointment out of her voice, but it doesn’t work. After a moment, she waves a hand dismissively. “Whatever, it doesn’t matter. A cat on a surprise.”

I pause for a beat, then shrug. “Coming right up.”

She sits back in her chair, pulling something new out of her bag. I don’t wait to see what it is, turning to pull a new mug from the stack by the espresso machine.

Tea, huh?

I think of what she might like and decide on a peppermint mocha. It’s simple, it won’t take very long to make, and November is close enough to the holidays. Right?

I set the finished drink next to the notebook she’s writing in. She brightens and straightens up, intent on the cartoonish cat floating lazily in the foam of the coffee. After a quiet moment, she looks up with a pleased grin.

“It’s so cool, the things we can trick our eyes into seeing,” she says, pushing $3.50 across the counter.

That’s a strange way of saying you like it, but _all right_. I take her money and quickly feed it into the register. I look around to make sure that I didn’t miss anyone coming in and shove the drawer shut. Turning back, I expect her to be writing again.

She holds her phone, hovering on the edge of her seat, taking a picture of the cup of coffee. So focused, but definitely not what I would call studious or collected—not with the tip of her tongue poking from the corner of her mouth. She’s just a girl posting on Instagram or something, and it’s cool to see a different side of someone I see everyday.

I pull up my own stool to sit across from her and ask if she goes to the university. She lowers her phone and nods.

“Yeah, and it’s kicking my ass.” The corner of her mouth quirks for an instant, and she answers my next question before I can ask it. “Majoring in psych. Pre-nursing program. How about you? You definitely look like you could be a Viking.”

I open my mouth to answer, but pause when I actually catch what she said. What does that even mean? Her pleasant smile doesn’t waver, but it does withdraw from her eyes. _Is she flirting with me?_ Goddamn it, Connor, your mouth is open—say something.

“Yeah. Social Work—or, I applied to the BSW program. It’s—”

“Complicated. Yeah, I know. I thought about that, but I’m opting for one-stop-shopping,” she says matter-of-factly, though I’m not sure exactly what that means. I can’t think of anything to say, so I just look back to the mug of coffee.

It isn’t steaming anymore, and the edges of the design have long since melted away into the rest of the foam, a white blob. She still hasn’t had any. That’s okay, though, I’ll just drink it again if she doesn’t. I’m sure Jordan will try to murder me, but at least she paid for both of them.

I look up when she snaps her notebook shut. She pushes it to the side and spares a glance at the coffee. Her hand moves toward it, but she seems to think better of it, scratching her cheek instead. She looks at me.

“What year are you?”

“Second,” I answer promptly. Her expression darkens and she looks away, a sardonic smile twisting her lips.

“Duh—you applied for the BSW program.” She laughs, a short, dry sound, and slips the notebook back into her bag. The computer quickly follows, but she doesn’t move to leave. “How do you—”

She stops and taps her nails on the counter. Pink paints her cheeks, but I pretend not to notice. I wait for a moment, thinking she might try again, but she doesn’t.

“What about you?”

She stares at me, blank. I almost remind her, but I can almost see the lightbulb shine behind her eyes the moment she remembers.

“Oh! First year. New to the school, new to the city, the whole works.”

Freshman? I wouldn’t think it just from looking at her. She seems to fit the whole ‘exhausted college student’ aesthetic to a T, and I don’t think I lost my high school habits until spring term.

“It’s the hair,” she says abruptly, her palm pressed flat against the counter.

“What?”

“The Viking thing. And the eyes. Blond, blue eyes. It was a Nordic joke, but it probably didn’t translate well from my brain to my mouth.” Her expression is sour, disappointed. In me? Or herself? “My sister hit me with it when we found out the PSU mascot is a Viking, but we’re pretty much telepathic, so...”

She gazes at the coffee again, but this time doesn’t make the slightest move toward it.

“Why order it if you aren’t going to drink it?”

She looks at me, the secret joke of a smile appearing briefly. Then she says what I suspected all along, complete with a pleasant smile and an admirable deadpan:

“I can’t stand coffee.”

I shake my head, grinning. “Sitting in a coffee shop when you don’t like coffee, I think that’s an actual sin.” She nods seriously.

“Oh, I’m sure it is.” She breaks into a smile and stands. “But I need real food that I don’t have to pay for, if you’ll excuse me.”

She’s digs into her pocket, eyes glazed, and I get to my feet, too.

“Hey, I never actually got your name.”

She withdraws her hand from her pocket, her grin turning sheepish. “Sorry. I’m Sawyer. Thanks for the foam art, Connor. I’ll be back tomorrow.” She drops a crumpled wad of cash on the counter and turns on her heel. At the door, she turns and directs finger guns at me, which I laugh at.

Sawyer. That’s a great coincidence, isn’t it— _Connor Sawyer?_ I count the tip, another $10, and stare at the full cup of coffee.

Tea, huh?


	3. Chapter 3

Today is much busier than usual, more patrons at my brother’s dinky little coffee shop than it was meant to handle. I’m waiting for Rachel to get here to help out, even though I feel bad about dragging her out of her day off. She sounded relieved to have a distraction from her chem project, though.

The line’s already three people deep when I hear the bell at the door chime again. I pause, only for a moment, but refrain from looking up at the door. I add the new orders to the growing list and turn back to start working on them.

I jump, momentarily fazed when I see Rachel approaching. She holds a rag, drying her hands, and peers over my shoulder at the notepad I have the orders on.

“I’ll get the drinks,” she calls in a sing-song, a disposable cup already in her hand, fiddling with the machine. I glower at her, earning an innocent grin, and head for the back with the list of food orders to make a few sandwiches.

I pause upon my return, brightening when I see Sawyer lounging in a stool and talking animatedly with Rachel. Fast worker that she is, I’m not surprised that she has the drinks done by now. I stop at the register and call out the sandwich orders.

I wait until all three get picked up to turn to Rachel. She sips at her own drink as she and Sawyer laugh, pretending not to see me eyeing her suspiciously.

“Did you pay for that?”

She turns to me, shocked. “I come here—on my day off—to bail you out, and you _accuse_ me of stealing!” She laughs. “Don’t worry, Jordan owes me.”

“Jordan owes me, too, and he doesn’t let me get free drinks,” I mutter sullenly. Rachel just laughs.

“He’d go bankrupt if he did.”

Both girls laugh, and I’m unable to defend myself as the bell at the door rings again. I settle for fixing them both with a glare before I go and hoping they feel bad. If the increased intensity of the laughter behind me is any indication, I’m not successful.

“Hey, what can I—” My smile immediately relaxes when I see my brother standing in front of the register. Speak of the devil. “Oh. Hey.”

He got a haircut since I last saw him, sandy hair barely brushing his ears. Sporting a tank-top in fifty degree weather, as usual, I wonder how he handles the windburn I can already see fading from his arms.

The only difference between us, aside from aesthetic choices, falls to his dark eyes. It’s been our party trivia for years, keeping us from indulging in the stereotypical childhood fantasy of twins pretending to be one another.

I doubt he wants to take my place at college anymore than I want to take his at the head of this shop, though.

“Hey. Busy today?” he asks, shooting a glance at the girls talking at the counter. Right, Rachel wasn’t scheduled.

I shrug, not wanting to admit how behind I got. “I guess. It’s no big deal.”

He nods, thoughtful, and fixes dark eyes on me. “I need to talk to you. In the back, ideally.”

I hesitate, but I don’t say anything to stop him when he comes around the counter and passes me into the kitchen. I turn my eyes on Rachel, who just shrugs with a straw still in her mouth. I don’t have much choice.

The kitchen of this place was obviously intended for more than sandwiches and mini-cakes, but Jordan still hasn’t gotten around to expanding the menu. His plan was ‘ _coffee,_ ’ and he’s been filling in the gaps since the doors opened.

That’s what happens when you open a business with insurance money, I guess—does it make me a bad brother to say he’s lucky for getting hit by a car? Even with that, though, he only has two employees, a scant menu, and not enough dishes.

_Not enough tea._

The thought catches me by surprise, and I pause outside of the break room. I can’t lie about how much I've been thinking about ways to do foam art on tea ever since Sawyer put it in my head, and I wasn’t exactly surprised to find out that it’s harder than with coffee. We’d need new equipment, special tea, and it sounds like—

“Hurry it up, old man!”

I push it from my mind and join Jordan. He’s leaning back on the back legs of a metal folding chair, a precarious balance than makes me want to shove him over. Instead, I close the door and sit in a matching chair across the table from him. He doesn’t look all that serious, but that doesn’t really give much away. He could be firing me, for all I know, though I doubt he wants to try running this place with just his girlfriend working here. In any case, I’m not sure how accurate his serene gaze is.

“When were you gonna tell me about stats?”

 _Oh._ This is _that_ talk.

“It’s just one class.” I know it’s an excuse. If I fail, he’ll blame himself. “You shouldn’t worry about it.”

“You only have to ask if you need time off.” He allows the front legs of his chair to fall to the ground. “I’ve been working on the applications, so we can get more people—”

“I’m fine.” I scratch the back of my neck. “I’d be slipping anyway. It just won’t click.”

He doesn’t reply at once, seemingly deep in thought. His brow furrows, and I hold back a comment on his tongue poking from between his teeth. I don’t think he would notice if I got up and left. After a couple minutes, right when I’m considering doing just that to leave him to his thinking, he brightens up.

“You could ask Sawyer to help you out.”

My brows shoot up. “You know Sawyer?”

He nods. “I get the impression that they don’t have a huge social circle, but I bet they’d help you if you asked.”

I think about it, mirroring his nod. “If it means that much to you, I’ll ask. She definitely—”

“They.”

I stop, momentarily confused until—

“Oh.”

**_Oh._**

“I’m not surprised you don’t know. From what I can tell, they forget to tell people.” He grins, a rare sight, and stands. “If that’s settled, we’re done.”

He heads for the door, but I call out to him. I pick at the corner of the table, only knowing he’s still there from my periphery. After a moment, he makes a sound in his throat to prompt me to continue.

“Do you think we could get more tea?”

He pauses, as if not expecting the question. “That’s on my list already.”

The gears turning in his head are almost audible, even when he's out of sight. I decide to interrupt his over-thinking. “I have some ideas, if you want to hear them later.”

“Okay,” he says, distracted. I look up and watch him turn to go, pause again, and glance over his shoulder. “Connor?”

“Yeah?”

“If you fail that class, I’m cutting your hours in half next term.”

With that, he leaves me alone to continue pulling string from the seam at the puffy corner of the table.


	4. Chapter 4

I’m early.

I tap my foot on the cement path outside of the library and check my phone again. I realized a few minutes ago that I could be sitting on the short wall opposite the doors, but I’m already standing next to the actual building.

My theory is, staying as still as possible might keep me from getting colder. It’s not working, but I can still hope.

“Eyy!”

My head jerks up at the voice, familiar by now. Sawyer aims a finger gun at me, their other hand occupied by a bottle of water. They barely pause as they pass me, flashing me a grin before they hop through the revolving door.

I follow. I don’t spend as much time in the library as I should, but they seem completely at ease here. They hesitate once before approaching the circulation desk to pick up the key to our study room, but I think that’s just them.

It’s been a few days since I asked them for help, and they haven’t been back to the shop since then. The term is starting to wind down, so I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re too busy to take the time to come down from their dorm after class.

I don’t know how many times I’ve thanked them, and I’m trying to refrain from saying it again now. I’m not sure if they just get flustered easy or if they really don’t see this as something worth making a deal over. If I don’t have to retake this statistics class, it’ll definitely mean something to me, though.

“We’re on the fifth floor.” They stride briskly toward the corridor holding the elevators with their eyes on the key. “Thank god.”

“Picky?”

“Oh.” They look up at me and shove the key into their hoodie pocket. “It’s quiet up there. It actually feels like a library.”

“I see.”

I really don’t know what to say, and it doesn’t help that they aren’t the best conversationalist either. The elevator takes a while, and we both peer at a glass case holding documents from the Vietnam War. I’m still squinting at a letter from someone speaking against the war when the chime comes and we usher into the car.

I forget what the letter said almost immediately, though I try to grasp at it in my mind. Nothing stays, so I ask the next thing that pops up.

“How do you know Jordan?”

They fidget, spinning a ring around the middle finger of their left hand. They glance up at me with a nervous laugh. “On Tinder, actually. He had a profile for the coffeehouse. Not sure where he got that idea, but we ended up talking for a while when we matched over the summer.”

“That sounds like him. Using a dating site for anything _but_ dating.” I smile, imagining my brother putting together a bio for the shop. “That’s why you come in all the time?”

They shrug. “I mentioned that I don’t have anywhere to study but my dorm or the library, and he suggested it. I never end up studying, though, just writing.”

We step out of the elevator at the fifth floor and they take a moment to get their bearings before leading the way to our study room. We chat a bit more on the way. They tell some stories of their Tinder adventures, though they stop pretty suddenly when they tell me there’s a message they’ve been meaning to reply to for more than a week as if they just realized it themself.

That’s okay, because they change the subject as I’m closing the door to the study room.

“Now, I’m going to be completely honest: I might not be the best teacher for this. I missed a class last week, so…” They look troubled for a moment, then shake their head as if dislodging a fly and move on. “I don’t think I’m _bad_ at it, though.”

“I’d say that’s good enough, because I _am_ bad at it.”

They flash me a brief smile. “Then let’s get started.”

They pull a couple notebooks and a graphing calculator from their bag and drop into one of the rolling chairs at the table. They start flipping through the first notebook as I join them at the table.

I take out my own calculator and a notebook and wait for them to find whatever they’re looking for.

“What are you having problems with, exactly?”

“Oh!” I take out my phone to get my notes. “I made a list the other night.”

They peer at the list that I show them, then open one of their smaller notebooks. “Can I see that real quick?” they ask, a hand held out for my phone while they focus on the notebook. I hand the phone over, and they copy the list down onto a blank page.

My phone is safely back in my pocket fairly quickly, and we get to work.

They get distracted pretty easily, but we make good progress in spite of that. With their help, I get better notes to study from, and they help me come up with ways to remember the things I get mixed up.

They said that they aren’t a good teacher, but I don’t believe it.

“Okay, look, don’t be _scared_ of the sigma. That’s the whole problem, you’re making it a bigger deal than it is.”

“But it doesn’t make sense,” I mutter, still trying to wrap my head around the problem they just solved like it was nothing.

“Here, this might help.” They pull my notebook closer to them and start scribbling in it. When they give it back, they’ve crossed out the original problem—((Σx)2•3)+2—and replaced it with something new.

((28+32+23+20+30+39+22+36+31)2•3)+2

I frown, furrowing my brows at the simple problem. Is that really it? As I start punching numbers into my calculator, they keep talking.

“Greek letters always throw me off, too. Gotta remember, it’s just a placeholder. Got it?” They peer at the page when I straighten back up and check their own notebook before brightening up. “Yeah! Okay, here.”

They put down some more practice problems for me, saying the concept is more important than the symbol itself, and go quiet to let me do my work. I finish fairly quickly, and I’m actually confident in my answers for once.

I look up to see Sawyer pulling their hoodie up over their head. I didn’t think it was that warm in here but then my jacket is pretty thin. Their hair sticks up, pink and blonde strands going every which way, when they drop the jacket in one of the other chairs.

I almost say something, but they run their fingers through their hair a few times as if they’re completely aware of the state of it. I smile and push my notebook toward them to have them check my answers.

They run a finger down the line of my margins, nodding.

“Yep, we’ve got sigma down. You feel good about it?” they ask, turning their eyes on me.

I nod, and they flash me another grin. My pride kicks up a notch in the instant before they look back to the list of problem areas.

“Okay, factorials. Same principle, but with multiplication.”

We move steadily through the list, but we don’t even get a quarter of the way through it before my phone goes off, a shrill voice telling me to go to work. We both jump, but I think Sawyer’s more startled than I am. They press a hand to their chest and laugh, leaning back in their chair.

“Sorry.” I can’t help laughing, too, while I pull my phone out and turn the alarm off. I notice an email telling me I have two packages waiting for me. Bless overnight shipping. “Gotta go grab lunch before my shift.”

“That’s okay,” they say, checking their own phone. “We should have given the key back ten minutes ago, anyway.”

We both stand and start packing our things. I get distracted by a jingling sound, and look to them. They don’t seem to notice it, zipping their bag up, but it’s coming from a loose bracelet around their left wrist. Wait.

“Is that a collar?”

They freeze, their eyes slowly drift to the collar, as if they forgot about it being there. They frown and take a deep breath, before starting to pull their hoodie back on. “Yeah. It was my cat’s. He died last week.”

Their voice has a false-casual joking air that makes me think they don’t want to talk about it. I think of their sudden disappearance. The dead look in their eyes when they returned to the shop last Saturday. I don't want to press them, so I just say I’m sorry for their loss.

They shake their head.

“It’s fine. I just—” They pull their bag on, shrugging, and start for the door. At first, I think they might be upset, but they hold the door open for me with a strained smile so we can walk out together. “It was sudden. But I’m fine, so it’s fine.”

They don’t sound fine, but I let the subject drop. We take the stairs this time, the choice made in silent agreement.

“Thanks, by the way. Again.” I say, trying not to sound like I’m changing the subject. “If it means anything, I think you’re a good teacher.”

They make a noncommittal sound in their throat. “Thanks. I think teaching yourself shit makes you a good teacher. I don’t like to talk badly about professors because this is what they do for a living, but most of the time it isn’t a student’s fault that they don’t understand.”

I glance at them, catching a flicker of frustration in the furrow of their brows before it smooths over. “You think so?”

“Well.” They seem to take a minute to think about it. “Most of the time. Some people just don’t want to learn, and that isn’t a teacher’s fault. But if a class has an average 60% pass rate, that can’t be explained by _lazy students._ ”

“Why are you going into nursing?” I ask suddenly. “Education sounds important to you.”

“I thought about it,” they admit with a laugh. “But there are other things I’m meant to do. There are a lot of things wrong with education, but it’s like that with everything. I can’t _do_ everything.”

“That’s true.”

They split off to turn the key back in. When they come back, they ask if I’m going to the dining hall for lunch.

“Ah, no.” I don’t even think I have any meals left for the term.  “I need to grab a package, so I’ll probably just get Subway.”

They nod. If they’re disappointed, they don’t show it, already drifting for the doors. “Alright. You want to do this again sometime?”

“Definitely!” That was _definitely_ more enthusiastic than I intended, but I’d better just run with it now. “Maybe Sunday?”

They hesitate, then nod again. “Yeah, that should be fine.” They grin and turn on their heel.

I watch them go for a second, then turn to the doors on the other side of the lobby. I brace myself against the cold and speed-walk through the wind to Montgomery, where the packages lay in wait. There’s a short line when I get in, but I walk out with both of my boxes in no time at all. Both of them are about the size of my head, and I know they hold the specialty tea I ordered.


	5. Chapter 5

It’s been a little more than a week, and I think I finally have statistics figured out. Sawyer was out of town for Thanksgiving weekend, but they still offered to go over some material over Skype. I refused and it was a good call. I need to know I can do it without them hovering over my shoulder, after all.

They’re supposed to be back today—they sent me a picture of the sunrise on their way to the bus station—and I’ve been practicing a surprise for them. They told me they would stop by after class, at their usual time.

Jordan has been whining about the cost of the machine I told him to buy. He refused to take it out of my paycheck, though, so I’m not taking him very seriously. He’s still holding my grades over my head, and he hasn't given me a chance to tell him about my improving homework scores.

Rachel knows, though. At least she’s proud of me.

“They should sign up as an official tutor. Then they’d get something for their effort.”

I throw my rag at her, which she deftly catches. “I thought spending time with me was a reward in itself.”

“The word you’re looking for is _punishment_ ,” she says before launching my own weapon back at me. I try to catch it, but it sails right through my hands lands a direct hit on my face, and falls limply to the floor. “Gotcha!”

“You’re _mean._ ” I pout and swipe the rag into the hamper under the sink before turning back to the tea press.

She doesn’t interrupt me again, already on her way to the kitchen, but she still complains to nothing back there. I roll my eyes and focus on the jars of tea next to the press. I don’t know what kind of tea they like, and I’ve been too worried about spoiling the surprise to ask them.

After a few minutes of shuffling between the jars, I take a chance on chai. It’s classic, everyone knows it, and there’s pretty much a 50/50 chance that they’ll like it. I’ll try not to think about the other 50% on that split.

I almost get to work, but the bell above the door rings before I can even open the jar. I look up at the group filing in and move to take their orders, but Rachel swoops in front of the register and shoots me a wink.

“Sawyer said they’d be here around one, yeah? If you want to surprise them, you’d better get started.”

I hesitate, but there’s no reason to argue. They could be here any minute. So, I get to work.

I’ve been practicing after-hours to get the process right, and I _think_ I have it figured out by now. It really isn’t that different than coffee now that I’m used to it, and I’m pleasantly surprised when it comes out decently on the first try.

The bell rings again, and I jerk upright to see Sawyer sweep into the shop. Rachel calls out to them, and I find myself grinning like an idiot. I join them at the counter, clutching the mug of tea to my chest.

“Hey, how was home?”

“It was great!” they exclaim, but their smile falters almost immediately. “I mean, I’m glad I’m back here for a million reasons, but it was fun.”

They hop onto a stool and push their bag onto the counter. I cut to the chase and set the mug in front of them. They blink down at it, and I can’t keep my mouth shut anymore.

“So, I know you don’t like coffee,” I say. “And my idiot brother didn’t get good tea. I figured, this term has been kind of shitty and you practically saved my ass, so I needled him until we got tea that I can do the dumb foam art on.”

I watch them nervously as I ramble. They turn the mug around to peer at the design, three small paw prints floating aimlessly in the foam. I wait for them to look up, emboldened by their continued grin, to continue.

“Long story short, here’s a chai latte on the house for tutoring me. And inspiring me, I guess.”

They perk up, tugging the cup closer without looking away from me.

“Wow, I don’t—” They giggle, something I haven’t heard from them before. “That’s crazy. You’re crazy.”

They shake their head and duck down to dig through their pockets. They place their phone on the counter, then slam a five down next to it.

“No. I’m not taking that,” I insist.

Their eyes shine, and they push the bill forward. “I’m not going to sit here after dealing with my crazy family for five days and not pay you for making my favorite tea. I get it’s a grand gesture, or whatever, but no.”

I frown at them, my arms crossed resolutely over my chest. Their smile, though, just grows into an obscenely giddy crescent. I can’t keep up the facade for long, eventually reaching out to take the five.

They clap and immediately pick up their phone to take a picture of the tea. I rock back on my heels, and I catch Rachel directing two thumbs up at me.

Holy shit.

“So, chai’s your favorite?”

They hesitate.

“Well, it’s my favorite tea that’s easy to get. Sometimes I get this great milk oolong from Teavivre, but that’s a whole other thing.” They pause again to finally— _finally—_ take a drink of something I’ve made for them. They brighten up. “This is great! How do you make the foam art?”

I invite them behind the counter to show them the tea press. I make another cup of chai, this time with a simple heart on it. They watch with rapt attention, far too serious for something so inconsequential. I poke fun at them about it, and they fix me with a feigned glare.

“ _I_ think it’s really cool, alright? I just write all day, and you’re making edible art that people enjoy without even realizing that’s what they’re doing.” They turn away, crossing their arms with a petulant pout. “It’s _rad_.”

When life gives you lemons...

“I mean, I could teach you,” I offer. They jerk around to face me again, a grin lighting up their face again. “If you won’t take a free drink, then I’ve got to find _something_ to do for you.”

They laugh. “You don’t have to _do_ anything for me. I didn’t help you with stats hoping you would give me your first born or anything. I did it because that’s something friends do for each other, right?”

“Well,” I struggle for the words I’m looking for. “In response to your friend-tutoring, I’ll give you some friend-barista-lessons.”

They stare at me and burst out laughing again, shaking their head. “You’re dumb. Yeah, though, that would be pretty cool.”

We chat for a few more minutes, then they check their phone and all but squeak when they see the time. Funny how _time_ works, now they have twenty minutes to swing by their dorm before their next class.

The second they leave, Rachel aims a soft punch at my shoulder.

“How’d it go?”

“It went great.” I beam at her as I gather both empty mugs and head for the back to wash them. “It went _really_ great.”


End file.
